by Tina Shaw
I wouldn’t have asked if my mother was present, but she’s gone to bed early with one of the migraines she gets since losing her sight.
Jorzy seems annoyed, as if it’s not for me to bring up this kind of subject at home. “That’s not my story to tell,” he says. “You’ll have to ask Nanna.”
Nanna, who is cleaning up at the bench, has heard the request; I can tell by her back, though she says nothing. She dries her hands on her cotton apron, and carries a bowl of greens over to the table. A groan comes from Babet, which is quickly silenced by one of Nanna’s sharp looks. She takes her usual place at the head of the table and gazes around at us. Jorzy is already helping himself to the greens. Hunger doesn’t have the luxury of manners. I reach for the bread.
Nanna seems more reserved than usual tonight, and I don’t think she’ll be in the mood for stories. She takes a sip of water from the tin mug at her elbow, and sends a glance down the table to Marina. My sister’s head is bowed over her empty plate and I think of the secret they are keeping from Jorzy. Surely he’s noticed something by now. Nanna takes the bowl of greens from Jorzy, and puts a helping on Marina’s plate, then her own.
“I was a mature woman when the Director first came to this city,” she begins. “He was a budding young politician from the Federation who was sent here, along with a group of others like him, to try to restore dignity to the city. They came from Rocheford,” she explains to me, “near the coast. A prosperous city.”
There’s a pause while she chews on a long stalk, making it last. Jorzy has already finished his share, and is cutting a slice of cheese to go with his bread. Cheese that I saved from my lunch at the garden.
“Ursa was in bad shape back then. There had been a drought for several years in the countryside all around, and the people living in the city were starving. We relied on farm produce, you see – cheese, meat, vegetables. The only thing we could still get for ourselves was fish from the river. And that was in poor supply as the river dried up.
“It was a state emergency, which was why the Federation sent the politicians to see if they could help us,” says Nanna. “Everybody was so demoralised … it needed fresh eyes to find a solution. Even our own Director had given up, and fled to his holiday house on the island of Karis.”
Jorzy reaches out and grabs the bowl. There are a few threads of greens in the bottom of it, which he pushes into his mouth with his fingers. Marina makes a snorting noise. I’ve noticed she’s eaten barely anything; these days I hear her throwing up early each morning.
“Anyway,” Nanna continues, “the Federation men looked all around, and had a lot of meetings, but nothing much seemed to be happening, while we continued to starve. Then a big meeting was called – in the Market Square. These Federation men got up on the stage. That was the first time I saw the Director. He was very good-looking,” she adds, giving one of her rare smiles, “or so everybody said … blond, young, impeccably dressed. Charismatic. There was fire in his eyes, passion in his voice. He spoke to the crowd – that crowd of thin, starving people, more like scarecrows than human beings, Cerels and Travesters alike – for we all lived as equals back then …”
Nanna pauses to eat another forkful of greens, a frown between her brows, the frown she always gets when she thinks about Cerels and Travesters.
“And he told us his news. How he personally had searched for and discovered a deep underground river not that far from the city, part of the Hevel River system. Even as he spoke, he said, irrigation had already begun out in the outlying fields. Crops could be planted again. Not only that, but he had ordered cartloads of food and supplies to be brought in, at the expense of the Federation, from neighbouring Svetlend, where there was no drought, to alleviate our suffering in the meantime.
“The crowd erupted,” Nanna tells us, gazing back into the past. It is a famous day, one of the city’s national holidays, except that these days only the Travesters celebrate it. “There was such joy,” she carries on. “We were saved. The city had been rescued by this young man from the Federation. He was our saviour.”
She pushes her plate away, as if in disgust, even though there are still some greens left.
“Quickly, it seemed, he went up in the ranks, and quickly the House of Law passed a special dispensation to proclaim him Director of the city. And quickly, it seemed to us back then, our city returned to normal life.”
“You didn’t suspect anything?” Jorzy asks quietly, his eyes narrowed as he lights his pipe.
Nanna takes a sip of water, considering, although I know she will have thought about this many times before. All the old folk do. As if they blame themselves for what came later.
“Not then,” says Nanna, “not until later, and by then things were changing too fast, it was too late to stop it.” She pauses, squeezing the bridge of her nose.
For a moment it looks like my tough old Nanna is going to cry, which is worrying, then the moment passes.
“The first thing I noticed was when I stopped in as usual to buy bread, and the shop was closed. It was after work, and I was tired, yet we needed bread for our meal that night, so I walked the few blocks to the next closest bakery. That shop was at the outskirts of our district, and wasn’t a shop I normally frequented. I stepped inside, and the woman behind the counter frowned at me – she was a Travester, and it was obvious that I was a Cerel from my dark features and poor clothing – and pointed at a new sign in the window. It said that Cerels were not allowed to buy bread from this shop, by order of the Director. But why? I asked in confusion. She shrugged and said it wasn’t for her to question an order from the new Director. That evening I tried two other bakeries I knew of, and it was the same story. Eventually I had to go home, empty-handed.”
It’s common knowledge what came next: the broadsheets from the Director stuck onto lampposts, pasted on walls and fences. Jobs in certain districts going only to Travesters. Then the men started to disappear, or were taken away to the new wild camps, including Papa.
Everybody around the table is silent now and Marina seems even more dejected than before. Nanna looks up, seeing the depression she has created. She claps her hands softly. “What a terrible bedtime story!” She gets up, bustling over to the bench with some plates.“Jorzy, sing us a funny song.”
“All right,” he says, “though Marina has to choose.”
My sister smiles briefly, while Babet tugs at her sleeve and whispers in her ear. “We would like the silly goose song,” she says.
“Ah, good choice.”
Jorzy fetches Papa’s viola from the shelf. Babet bursts out laughing as the first notes squawk from the instrument. She jumps up, dragging Marina along with her. Jorzy, his face screwed up, croaks out the lyrics. “Oh, I’m a goose, a silly, silly goose. I sing all day and I prance all night–”
Babet and Marina do the goose dance, hands tucked under their arms, necks stretched out. Even Nanna, with folded arms, is grinning. I tap my foot along with the viola and start to clap. Therei appears in the doorway and Marina grabs her hand, pulling her into the dance.
“Yes, I’m a goose, a silly, silly goose. Let me loose, and hear me braaay–”
And the viola yaws and brays like a wild goose. Like magic, children from other parts of the building materialise, so that the kitchen is soon full of people doing the goose dance. I’m laughing my head off.
Jorzy goes up an octave, making his voice into a falsetto. “Oh, I’m a goose, a silly, silly goose. I’ve got my neck caught in the farmer’s noose – eeeeeee!”As the viola teeters on the single rasping note, everybody falls down, shaking their feet in the air and laughing.
“Play it again, Jorzy,” cries Babet.
Putting the viola back up on the shelf, he ruffles Babet’s thatch of dark hair. “Maybe tomorrow, little goose.”
Marina disappears then with Therei, their heads together. Talking about the baby, probably, and it makes me feel sober again. I fetch in a bucket of water for Nanna, helping her to wash and dry the tin p
lates. With so little food, at least there isn’t much washing up to do.
“You’re a good boy, Leho,” Nanna says. My face goes hot; it’s not like Nanna to dole out unexpected praise. She puts the pile of clean plates up on the shelf above the bench. “Will you put Babet to bed tonight? Give Marina a night off.”
In the sleeping area, Babet is tucking her soft dolly and herself into bed, muttering some kind of nonsense under her breath to the doll. Crouching beside the mattress, I pull the covers up to her chin. My little sister’s eyes are large in the dim light as she looks up at me expectantly.
“Marina always tells us a story,” she declares. It’s funny seeing the two faces lying neatly on the pillow, my sister and her doll.
“I know, but she’s busy tonight.” I sit cross-legged on Marina’s mattress.
“Then you must tell us a story, Leho.”
“Oh, all right,” I huff, “but it’s going to be a short one.”
Babet wriggles under the covers. Shadows from the room’s burning candle play across the walls.
“There was this boy–”
“You’ve got to start with once upon a time,” she tells me.
Sheesh. “Right – once upon a time, there was this boy who got a job looking after the airships …” A sigh escapes from Babet. “First he was told to clean them. Up close, they were pretty big, so he had to climb up and down long ladders, these ladders as tall as our house, and he had a special hose that he could turn on and off …”
My gaze is on the peeling wall, though I’m seeing the huge sheds where the airships must be kept. I keep an eye out on my travels but maybe the sheds are in the barren outer land beyond the city gates. One day I’ll walk till I reach the very edge of Ursa and find the airship depots.
“The boy was so good at his job that he got promoted to become an assistant to the engineers who looked after the engines of the mighty airships. Every day he would stand next to one or other of the engineers and hand them any tools they wanted, and that’s how he learned everything about how the engines worked and how to fix them and how to keep them working smoothly.”
The shadows flicker on the walls as a draught moves the candle flame.
“One day, one of the airship pilots was sick … actually, he’d broken his hand, and he couldn’t fly the airships any more, so they were one pilot short. Then one of the engineers said, ‘Why not let this smart boy train to be a pilot?’ And that’s what he did, he became a pilot and flew the mighty airships …”
It’s all so clear in my head – even the inside of the pilot’s cockpit. Though I’ve never been near an airship before, I can see myself sitting in the cockpit and switching on the instruments to make it fly. Brilliant! How brilliant that would be, to be in control of an airship and to float above the city like a bird.
I’m so entranced by all of this I haven’t noticed the steady breathing of my little sister, nor my other sister coming in. Marina rests a hand gently on my shoulder and, with a nod, indicates that she will take over. I get up without a word and go into the kitchen.
All is quiet now. Only a faint sad song coming from somewhere at the front of the building. Standing in the dim kitchen, I debate whether or not to prowl the city. Except I’m tired after my day in the Director’s garden and I make for my cubbyhole, wanting to sleep and dream of airships.
* * *
Most nights, now, I’m too tired to roam the city. As soon as I crawl into my cubbyhole and my head hits the pillow, I’m asleep. Long, dreamless sleeping. Then – all too soon – I’m woken while it’s still dark by Nanna shaking my foot.
At the end of the week, with my pay in my trouser pocket, tied up in a handkerchief for safety, I head for Trabant Street. My first real wage! I’m flushed with having coins in my pocket. In reality it’s only a few coins – yet it’s the most I’ve ever earned at one time. Nanna is going to be pleased, especially now we don’t have Marina’s income any more.
I climb up behind one of the lions, hoping that Emee will spot me and come out. A lantern is shining in the building behind me, but I take no notice. A curtain flutters in an attic window high in Emee’s house. Is that her? A pale face appears in the window and my heart beats faster. “Come on,” I murmur, “come down.”
Behind me, a door opens and a wizened old woman appears, wielding a broom.
“Get away,” she screeches, shoving the broom at me. “Vermin!”
With a laugh, I jump down the steps and skip along the street. The door slams behind me, so I go back, though not to the lions. Waiting, I lean against the stone wall of another building. Across the way Emee appears, holding the little dog. Chin in the air, she marches along her side of the street, while I follow on my side, jaunty with the satisfying weight of the coin bundle in my pocket.
She crosses the street – without even a glance in my direction – and enters the park. The light is fading and there’s nobody here. Emee sits down on a bench.
“You’ve got to stop hanging around,” she says severely. “My aunt has noticed. She thinks you’re planning on burglarising our house.”
“Is that even a word?” I joke. “And anyway, when was the last time a Cerel broke into a Travester house?”
“I don’t know,” she says peevishly, “but it could happen.”
“No, it couldn’t,” I retort, losing my good humour already. “Nobody’s going to risk getting caught. For what? A few trinkets?” I don’t count my own raids on the military barracks. Frowning at the darkening trees on the far side of the lawn, I realise she’s got under my skin in only a matter of seconds. I want her to like me. “You could tell the truth – that I’m your admirer.” I steal a glance at her smooth, pale face.
Emee huffs and releases her pet to scuttle on the ground at our feet. “Are you really my admirer?”
Just as well it’s getting dark so she can’t see my blush. “Sure I am,” I say gruffly.
She smiles, and smooths her dress over her knees. “You know, Leho, a real admirer shows his devotion by bringing something for his beloved. Have you brought me anything?”
My heart thumps with nerves and the desire to impress her. It’s a silly game, this admirer business, yet I sort of like it. It speaks to me of a possible future, one in which a Cerel boy might pilot airships and fall in love with a Travester girl. If only I had something really special to give her. Then, with a grin, I remember what I found earlier.
“Now that you mention it, I have brought you something.”
She claps her hands. “Oh goody.”
I feel for the tiny shape in my jacket pocket. It’s something I’d planned to give my mother. I hold out my closed fist.
“What is it?” she whispers. Her lips are glossy wet.
“See for yourself,” I tell her, keeping my fist closed. I want her to touch me.
And just like that, Emee puts both hands over my fist. Her fingers are so soft, so warm. I open my fist and the small figurine lies revealed on my grimy palm.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, holding it up to what is left of the light.
It’s a ceramic dancer: a girl in the red and blue national costume of the Fonecians.
On the far side of the park a man is lighting the gas lamps. I’ll have to go soon.
“Wherever did you find it?”
Swallowing, I think of the Travester garden along the towpath and some small thing in the grass catching the light, but I can’t confess to any of that. “Ah, now, that would be telling.”
“You’re right,” she agrees. “A true admirer never reveals his sources.” Despite the flippant tone, her expression is serious and she seems to be trembling. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve given her a ruby or a yellow diamond. “Do you want to know something?” She doesn’t wait for my response. “I don’t really have an admirer. In fact, nobody has ever given me something like this before.”
As quick as breath, Emee leans over and kisses my cheek.
“Thank you, Leho.”
The
n she’s gone, leaving only a trace of lavender perfume on the air, her steps punching along the gravel path. With my eyes on the lamp man, I also hurry for the gates, a lightness in my heart.
13
Boss must be pleased to have some company, for he thaws a little more each day. Often now we work side by side, and he shows me things like how to tie up the tomatoes properly, or how to hand-fertilise the zucchini flowers. Apparently they’re sweeter to eat if you pick them little, unlike the big marrows we grow at home.
Each day, a selection of produce is put into a big, flat basket, which Boss takes up to the house when he goes to collect our lunch. He also brings back a bucket of scraps that go on the midden.
Boss has an arrangement with the Travester who delivers eggs to the house; this man brings a sack of chicken shit for the garden. They yarn for a few minutes, the two men, while I dump the smelly shit onto the midden and take the empty sack back to the egg man. Later, it’s my job to turn it in with the fork. Once, when I complained about the smell, Boss said that some shit is like gold, and it’s time I learned the difference.
We plant seeds together – beans outside, along the bottom of the high trellis that runs along the border of the garden, while cabbage seed goes into trays in the shed. As well as the vegetables, there are herbs that grow around the borders: dill, fennel, coriander, parsley and thyme.
Boss is particularly proud of his gherkins. The Director, he says, has personally commended him on these gherkins. Those plants have all the special treatment – I’m not even allowed near the plot at the top end of the garden where the plants can get the most sun. Boss has a special spray he concocted for the leaves, to stave off the white mould, and the plants get plenty of water and well-rotted material from the midden.
He shows me the chart pinned to the back of the shed door. It displays the last five years of plantings, notes where everything has grown. Squinting at the complicated diagram, I can see the vegetable cycles. Nothing grows in the same spot the following year but is rotated to another area. Root vegetables are followed by brassicas; brassicas by tomatoes or corn.
